robot_restoration_projectfandomcom-20200214-history
Talking Shop and Dubious Choices
++ The Jump Joint ++ Ruiner is sitting at a table by himself, with a bottle of black label engex, one of the few available around - he has the funds for it, it would seem. He's watching one of the video monitors, which is showing a live feed of the pit fights - which are still ongoing. His paint is pretty bashed up and he's got abrasions and little surface dents all over. Tonight, Hot Rod wins the contest of 'most impressive paintjob'. That's good, because Hot Rod definitely loses at drinks. Low-grade energon is either all he can afford or all he trusts. Considering the wide-ranging additives, his order is pathetic enough to get a scornful glance from the bartender. The look runs off Hot Rod's (impressive!!) paint like so much water. Once he has his drink, next up is a seat. With a squabble over betting threatening to spill over onto the open seat nearest, he heads for the runner up. Ruiner won't mind, right? Good, because there's Hot Rod stealing a chair with only a, "You didn't need this, did you?" asked after the fact. "Suit yourself mech," Ruiner greets casually, flicking some gray paint off his torso. He's pretty laid back, and everything about him seems it; his body posture is totally casual and copasectic. Though behind a visor, his optics go to that weak drink, then to the paint. He immediately adds up the cost and assigns Hot Rod the label of 'bad with finances'. "You look a little out of place here, flames. New in town?" How dare he judge a mech by his paint. "Good." Having claimed the seat and settled in like it was his take, how nice it is that Hot Rod isn't actually ruining anything. New or not, he's comfortable in the space -- or confident, anyway. His gaze moves too restlessly for him to be quite relaxed. All that given, he has no right to look surprised by the question. "What? No, I'm not new. Anyway, I'm just visiting. Swing by here every so often. Business kind of things." (He sounds a little self-important. /Business/.) "Little piece of advice - in this town, don't drink light grade. You'll just be asking for trouble in dark alleys." Ruiner picks up an empty cube at his table, pours some of the engex and slides it over to Hot Rod, while still watching the video feed. "Here on business huh? Funny, so am I." A cautious mech would stick to his own drink. A wiser mech would -- well, probably not have come in here in the first place. Given that Hot Rod is neither, he takes the cube. "What's wrong with the light grade?" He seems willing to accept Ruiner's advice, for all that he has no idea who he is, and he has known him for about -- a dozen words. A strong basis for friendship. "What's your business?" "I stock medics, clinics and racing crews," Ruiner says. "Energon, life-saving parts, paint, mesh, the whole frame. As for the drink, well... everyone here's industrial grade. They work hard, they drink hard, and they play hard," he says, lifing the bottle and pointing at the video monitor with a finger. "So you wanna act as low-caste and manual as possible. The sentiment around here to a polished chassis isn't real good." "Yeah? Good. Medics and clinics need all the help they can get," says Hot Rod, like Ruiner is doing it all out of the goodness of his spark. "Actually why I'm here. I was helping a clinic set up a new supplier. Already settled, though. Sorry." He shrugs in apology, tipping his oh-so-polished spoiler at an angle. He leans forward, elbows on the table and cube clasped in his hands. "Still, what're your prices? Or have you get all the customers you can get?" He nods at the latter bit of advice, but mostly he just looks amused by it. "I can handle the trouble. "It really depends on what you're asking for. If it's just a paintjob and details fifty shanix will get you looking like you're ready to step into the Circle. If you're asking for a replacement t-cog for a multiformer, then things go up -significantly-." Ruiner sits up a little more, now that he's talking shop. He brushes off more tattered paint from his chest, smirking a little. "Heh. Should have taken care of myself before I got here. I'm hardly ready to talk shop." Despite the ... everything ... about him, Hot Rod says, "Not really looking for paintjob or detailing." Clearly he has that covered. "Or a multiformer -- Primus, you really get a lot of requests for that? No, I'm usually looking for groups in Nyon, so. You know." He gestures, a little vaguely, but it involves the drop of his hand through the air: lower castes, lower expectations. Hand flattening, he lifts the cube to take a sip and considers the scruff of Ruiner's paint. "Don't tell me that's because you ordered light grade." Ruiner laughs. "No, no - this? Let's just say Megatron gets pretty physical when he places an order." "Oh." Hot Rod gives the abrasions another glance. "So do you invoice repairs?" he asks with a grin. "I'm trying to imagine someone actually putting down a line item for that. Megatron, huh? So what's he like?" "Yeah, I'll take orders and invoices, I do repairs too. Used to be a pit mechanic in Ibex back before the races went on hiatus." He takes a drink out of that bottle, setting it down on the table with a *thunk*. "Megatron? One word: Intense. He's not the kind of mech you want to mince words with or play around. You get in, you state your business and you get it done. He'll throw you through a wall if he thinks you've short-changed him." "Huh." Hot Rod fiddles with the cube, turning it this way and that. He does a lot more toying with it than he does drinking it. "Can't imagine anyone trying that twice. Intense I could've guessed. Between the scrap they fill the airwaves with, what few rumors get to Nyon, and then what he writes -- it's like three different mechs, you know? Lot of people in Nyon interested in what he's saying, but even then, it's like they are all hearing something different." "Killing changes you." He says this from experience, not that he'll be telling Hot Rod that any time soon. "Mech's been through sixty death matches, fought for his life every time. Senate sent this one-optic freak to try to kill him in Rodion after they arrested him on trumped up charges. Just about beat him to death. That kind of stuff? You don't stay the same after." Hot Rod puts on his very best 'I've never heard of any one-opticed freak, and I certainly don't hang out with him' face. Then he hides it behind the lift of his cube, although he doesn't yet drink from it. "I heard something about that," he mutters. "So -- intense. Okay. Look, I know better than to believe what they tell us about him, but if he's not the same -- what is he?" "Frustrated at this world. Sick of what's going on around him. Sick of being owned." Ruiner gestures to the room. "Look at what's around us; it's all he's ever known. He's smart, he's ambitious, and he got a will of solid ununtrium. He's got his sights set on tearing down the whole system... and I don't think anyone's gonna stop him." "I've been told it's been done before." Hot Rod sketches a circular gesture on the table between them. "I guess last time we didn't do a very good job, because here we've got all this again. Worse, maybe. So we've got to do a better job. Figure out how it's going to be different." "Not my call to make," Ruiner counters. "I'm not a worldbuilder. I don't sit around all day planning out how to make the world a better place; I don't have the head for it. Best I can hope for? Enjoy the downward spiral until everything crashes and burns." Despite himself, Hot Rod grins. "Well, at least you don't mess around about what you can and can't do. Declare it up front, nice and easy, that way no one can expect anything else of you." He looks a little wistful. If only he had tried that. "Name's Hot Rod, by the way." "Nice to meet you, Hot Rod. Name's Ruiner." Meaningful name #1, meet Meaningful Name #2. "You a racer? You look like you've got the frame for it." "Crashes and burns, huh?" Hot Rod takes note. Ruiner. Downward spiral. Check. "Yeah, I race, sometimes," is not actually the same thing as being a racer. Technically. "Wasn't assessed for it. Can you believe it? I do okay, though. You still keep a hand in, with the big races on hiatus and everything?" Speaking of someone who doesn't quite fit in, who exudes that sort of "high class snobbery" Ruiner mentioned earlier, the type that gets beady stares and frowns from the likes of the rough mechs who call this place home: Blast Off walks into the bar. And indeed, he has that aristocratic air to him. The slightly smug look, even as he walks among the miners and the "ruffians", as he'd call them. He may not even be aware he's doing it- it just comes naturally. He's here for- not wine, no, but beer. Things are strange for him these days, Ok? Taking another step forward- he spots Hot Rod. That halts this forward progress and he stands there as if hesitating. A glance back, as if deliberating /leaving/ just as he arrives... but he hesitates. He /would/ like that drink. Nor can he avoid Hot Rod forever. "Pff. Yeah, it can be pretty arbitrary. One tank goes to the mines, the other to the military." Ruiner takes another big drink. "Nah, I'm pretty done with pit crews. Nothing like mucking out the stables for the thoroughbred gearhounds and getting scrap pay and scrap hours while they get all the fame and fortune. I just work in recycling and medical supplies." Blast Off's arrival doesn't go unnoticed; he waves to the other mech as if he knows him. He does, if only by way of part requests for shuttles, which don't come easy or cheap. As Blast Off spots Hot Rod, so Hot Rod spots him: << You just can't turn off that ~shuttling~, can you. >> It's too late to run. Not only has he been spotted, but he's been sassed. He lifts his drink to tip it toward Blast Off in greeting. His gaze is sharp. "You see much of the IAA, how it was run, when you were there?" he asks, too casual to be quite as careless as he pretends. Blast Off blinks at Ruiner's wave. Does... he know this guy? If he does, it must have been through something in the Forge. The shuttleformer's optic ridges furrow down a bit. Anything that seems odd to him just makes him want to edge away... maybe he should just leave; he could find another bar.... Then Rod radios him. An instant HUFFF(!) results. << What is that supposed to even /MEAN/? >> Shuttling? SHUTTLING? Is this some sort of slang the street mechs are using these days or something? It takes the PROUD and HONORED tradition of being the shining light in the universe that is a SHUTTLE and makes it sound like something ...something silly. HMPH. Indeed, being sassed is the final straw, and the shuttle shuttles over, puffing up in haughty indignation, coming to stand near the other two mechs. He glances down his nose at Ruiner. "...Do I know you?" A somewhat run-down but functional fembot brings out another bottle to Ruiner, setting it down in front of him. He passes her an exceptionally good tip and pats her on the shoulder. "Get yourself what you need," he says pleasantly enough. She takes the money, hungry for it by the way it's rapidly slipped into a side compartment before she skitters back. She doesn't want anyone to see the amount she just got as a tip - they might take it by force. "IAA?" He barks a short, bitter laugh. "Oh don't get me started. Don't get mixed up with those spark-sucking parasites. They'll lure you in with big promises, get you to sign away your life. Once they own you, they'll use you up and break you down. It's all about the almighty shanix, and they don't care how they get it." Ruiner pushes a chair out from the table he and Hot Rod are sitting at, towards Blast Off. "No, but I know the people that do your repairs. Have a seat, you two seem to be friends." Perhaps Hot Rod's drink is not agreeing with him, because his expression suggests nothing so much as it curdling in his tanks. He gives Blast Off a long look. Friend. /Friend/. "Yeah, have a seat, buddy." He adds a helping foot to the bottom of the chair as Ruiner pushes it out. "Since apparently we need to /catch up/." "No risk of signing," Hot Rod says to Ruiner with an open-palmed gesture. "I've just got some a friend tangled up with them. Can't say any of that surprises me. Anyone running that place that /isn't/ a waste of fuel?" The mention of the IAA garners some attention from Blast Off, whose sour(er) expression hints of his own run-ins with the group. He lets out an annoyed sigh. "The IAA is behind a lot more of the current corruption than most people would ever guess..." He shakes his head- though that halts at the "friends" comment. This is followed by staring at Hot Rod. ...friend? Violet optics meet the racer's, optic ridge lifted in doubt. A chair gets pushed out in front of him and he just stands there, staring at THAT for a moment before sighing once more. He gives a little shrug and sits down. Still looking a bit stiff and uncomfortable. Then he's back to looking at Ruiner. "You get shuttle parts? Those have been exceptionally hard to find. Sometimes I've had to go.... out of town for them." He once again looks dour, his hand clenching in a fist and then relaxing again. "Ever since the Clampdown it is only getting /more/ difficult to find components I need." "I've got my eye on a few," Ruiner says to Blast Off. "Just gotta strike when the moment's right you know? Sometimes if you don't jump on the opportunity it gets away from you." He slides a decidedly wicked looking knife out from a section of his arm kibble, holding it in one hand while the other goes fetch a whetstone from a storage compartment on his leg. He begins to idly sharpen the blade. skrriiiiick. skriiiiick. "I don't know who's at the top of the IAA, but usually the pit crews and technicians are decent enough. Some of the racers too - the smart ones find a way to wreck themselves and retire once they're no longer popular. Once you get popular, well... they'll do -anything- to hold on to you." Skriiiiiick. Skriiiiiick. "Take that new guy, Blurr. He's making them money hand-over-fist, I don't think that kid'll ever be free. First time I've seen 'em specifically engineer a racer from the spark up. They must be getting tired of the good ones slipping out of their hands." Hot Rod droops over his drink. "Yeah. No kidding. Like that new guy. There's not one last bit of him that isn't stamped with their control." He makes a hooking gesture, fingers digging in to some imaginary spark-and-or-processor above the table. He vents in a long sigh and then shifts, restless, to refocus his attention on Blast Off. "So? Spill." Blast Off's head tilts ever-so-slightly. "You do? Where?" The shuttle was just in Altihex /looking/ for spare parts. If there is some supply, he wants to know where it is! The skrriiicking over the table distracts him a little, and he leans back, not enjoying the sound. He takes pause to order a drink, then the subject matter turns to Blurr. Who he just fought and left lying in a backalley of Altihex. Oh. Yeah. Hot Rod might not take too kindly to that. Hmm. Well, it's not like he KILLED Blurr- and he could have! No, he got some very interesting information about the government's latest efforts at spying and controlling /everyone everywhere ever/. And it is on that thought that Rod's order to "spill" gets stonewalled. Blast off glances away just as his drink arrives, and he uses that as a distraction. No, Hot Rod, sorry, didn't hear you! Ruiner waggles a finger. "Ah-ah-ah, bad business to tell you where. You might undercut me," he beams. Turning the knife to look at the sharpness of the blade, and satisfied with its sharpness, he begins scraping away some of the damaged paint on his torso, flicking away black, blue and a gray that doesn't belong like so much glitter. "C'mon mech, don't keep Hot Rod waiting! Look at those flames and those sad, sad optics. He wants to know." What's that? Blast Off didn't hear him? Hot Rod will have to ask again, louder: "Hey, come on, what's the deal?" His optics grow more annoyed and less sad by the moment as he straightens out of his droop to lean toward Blast Off. Blast Off hrpmhs at Ruiner's recalcitrance, fingers flexing along the rim of his mug of his beer before bringing it up to sip (yes, sip) through a hatch in his faceplate. (Some old habits die hard.) He tries to let that display of the knife act as a distraction as well, but Ruiner sort of... ruins that. And so does Hot Rod. The shuttle glowers and leans away. "Just... what? Here? Too many people." "You think they care what we're talking about?" Ruiner asks with a laugh that quickly turns into a wince. "--fffrag there it is," he hisses, before using the tip of the knife to dig out a shard of armor lodged inbetween one of his transformation plates. "You know, I don't exactly have a reputation for patience," says Hot Rod as he settles into his forward lean. He flicks a glance at Ruiner and then back at Blast Off. "Not for company? Okay. Allow me to show you a way around that." He gestures widely and does ... nothing. Says nothing. Ruiner will be disappointed. By radio, however, he jabs at Blast Off: << Come on! >> Blast Off gets needled and cojoled on TWO ends! This is NOT fair! The shuttleformer glowers even further, pressing back into his seat and bringing his mug with him to hold it near his face- almost like a shield. Yes, his drink will protect him. Like wine protected hi- oh wait. He glowers even more, drinking and glaring over the rim. "I don't care- I don't know!" He answers Ruiner. "I just mean that there are some things that are very... sensitive. or very private. Or both sensitive AND private. Which is when... care should be taken." Hot Rod's radio message gets an uncomfortable squirm. << ...What? What did you want? Stop annoying me! What have you heard? >> He's suddenly not sure if Hot Rod's referring to Shiftlock or if he heard about Blurr yet. Ruiner stands up from his chair, putting away the knife into its hidden sheath. "I'll leave you two lovesick kids to work this out, all right? I get when I'm a fifth wheel." He picks up the bottle of black label he hasn't yet finished, and heads for the door. Blast Off watches Ruiner leave, and if he feels at all bad for making Ruiner feel like a third wheel it doesn't show. (He doesn't, btw.) Then his attention is back on Hot Rod, out of neccessity, foregoing any reaction to "lovesick kids" on his part as well. The shuttle blinks as the racer thumps the table and continues clutching that beer mug like it's a shield. He stares at the other mech for a long, long while... then finally his gaze drops away and he leans back again. The Combaticon's mood shifts into something a little more somber. Now that Ruiner is gone, he speaks- though it's quiet, something only Hot Rod would hear. "There was just... this... thing. What was I saying?" He has to focus a bit to remember. "Choice. You asked me if she had a /choice/. If maybe she /chose/ to be brainwashed." His optics narrow and he looks at the other mech. "Do you /really/ believe she'd choose that? Do you believe anyone who knows any better would?" "I don't know, Blast Off." Following his lead both by speaking aloud, and by speaking quietly, Hot Rod shakes his head. He knuckles his helm and then leans his cheek against his hand. "You didn't hear this guy. Mech I trust, saying she chose it. She just wanted someone to tell her what to do, because she was all alone. I don't know. I mean, I don't want to believe. Don't want to believe someone I was -- you know, one of us," he says, breaking off and rephrasing rather than claim personal responsibility. "But just because I don't want to believe it doesn't mean it might not be true. Barricade throwing her out hit her hard. I told him it would." A flash of anger lights his features, fierce, but momentary. Yes, it /did/ hit her hard." Two black hands still gripping that beer mug slowly reach down and place the drink on the table in front of him. Blast Off then keeps those hands there, staring at them, the drink, even the heat shield winglets on his arm. "Surely you know how confused and ...lost she was. How /niave/ she was." He sighs and looks up, but not at Hot Rod. "The last time I met her was in an alleyway after making a delivery. She should /never/ have radioed me, given that she was outcast from the Decepticons and I still worked for them... and yet she did. I met her in that alleyway." His pointer finger begins tracing the rim's edge of his mug. "I could have done /anything/ to her." Hot Rod's eyes narrow, but after a measured pause, he says, "She trusted you. Yeah, I know how lost she was, and this guy says she did whatever it took to find her way again. So what were you talking about when you said you led her somewhere? /Blurr/ is the one who arrested her, so--?" "No, no... I didn't lead her anywhere... and that's the thing. I /could/ have. If I had wanted to, she was putty in my hands." Blast Off finally looks up at Hot Rod, locking gazes with the other mech. "Shiftlock was convinced that the fight between Barricade and Whirl was /her fault/. In fact, she felt so bad about it, so /guilty/... that she kept going /on and on/ to me about how she should be *punished*. How she was a /bad person/ for this." The shuttle's gaze drops off again, staring in the distance somewhere. "She was talking /nonsense/... so after awhile ...I finally obliged. I went with it... I tried to make a point." His gaze goes back to Rod, an odd icy fire in his optics as he leans in a little. "I told her yes, that indeed the only way she could ever repay for all her sins was to let me take her /back/ to the Decepticons. Take her back to meet justice and to make amends for all her/crimes/. And do you know her response? She dropped down on her knees and told me... she would go with me. That she /deserved/ this- and she'd allow me to take her back THERE." Hot Rod draaaaags his hand down his face. He leaves behind a look of smoldering resentment and banked anger. "I told him. I slagging well told him but he was convinced--! I hope he's real happy with himself now. And Mercury! Just leaving her! And Ratbat for starting it all in the first place." And basically it's anyone's fault but his, okay. Blast Off tchs, leaning back in. "Oh, that's not even ALL of it!" Now he's suddenly feeling chatty it seems. "That wasn't even the end! I could not believe that response, so I pressed further. I described in /lurid detail/ all the ghastly things the worst of the Decepticons were going to /do/ to her. How she'd be stripped down, pieced apart, and finally destroyed forever. DO YOU THINK THAT CHANGED HER MIND? No. NO, it did NOT." Some of his own incredulity seeps through, and he leans back in a huff. "She was trying to be... /brave/ and face justice. I pressed her one more time... and then, and only then, did she finally show me some spark, some struts... some SENSE. She finally railed against me." The shuttle shakes his head. "Imagine if I had come to her with honeyed words. Imagine if I made her all sorts of pleasant promises. She would have happily skipped into my cargo bay and /never stood a chance./" Now he's the one who feels like dragging his hand down his face. Letting out another sigh, he continues. "I was honest with her. I doubt the Autobots were." There's a twitch, and he asks, "Told who? "Barricade." Hot Rod speaks his name in tones generally reserved for, like, Prowl. Or. The Senate. /Not fond/. "He kicked her out for her own good. How much good do you think /this/ is." He folds his arms on the table and slumps forward. Despite the droop of his posture, his expression is frowning, thoughtful. "It makes sense, what you're saying. Those lying little--." It gets ruder from there. Blast Off actually subconsciously mimics Hot Rod. Well, to a lesser degree, at least. Flumping forward on a table would be too /undignified/ for the aristocratic shuttle, but still he leans forward, arms sliding until his elbows rest on the table's edge. He looks tired. He /feels/ tired. "Indeed." There's another, smaller huff. "Barricade." He doesn't sound like he thinks much of the mech, either. Look- they're having a moment of solidarity now! "I tried /talking/ to him, tried to figure out what he was thinking.... but he's a stubborn fool. Yes- yes, he had the audacity to try sounding like he did it for her own good. And NOW look where she ended up." He winces at the thought, growing quieter, and takes a moment to lift that beer up and inhale a large swig of it. "I... I tried to instruct her, Hot Rod. I tried to get her to value life, and choice. HER choice. I made her promise me she would never meekly submit to the sort of thing she almost agreed to do with /me/." His gaze drops down into the mug now. "I... don't think she listened to me." Hot Rod holds up two fingers. Why two fingers? Allow him to explain: "That makes two of us. Talked to her about choice at least once that I can remember. Probably more, let's be honest. It's kind of a thing with me. Being free to make your own decisions. At least I know you weren't any better at it." It is of extremely dubious comfort, no matter how he tries to make it sound. He pushes himself upright and leans back. "Thanks. The way you made it sound the other day -- I don't know. Don't know where to find help for them, either, but I'm still looking." Having it pointed out that he didn't do any better than this ground-pounder rankles a little of the shutle's pride (shuttling, remember?) but he lets it go and simply nods. "Then that is something we both agree on." There's a dubious glance sideways at the racer, "I'm not always sure just how /much/ we DO agree on, but.... yes, choice is... everything to me. No one has the right to take that away. Or... they shouldn't, at least." Giving Rod a nod, he straightens up a bit as well. "...I wish you luck. I have searched and tried to find answers but I'm at a dead end. If you ever do find her; find a cure... I'd like to know." The talk of choice reminds him of his recent encounter in Altihex, as well. While he doesn't want to mention that whole thing with /Blurr/... because, ya'know, Hot Rod might get some kind of /wrong idea here/ or something.... (What with Blurr being left lying in a ditch somewhere- pffft, details.) However- Blast Off thinks that perhaps Hot Rod deserves a slight... warning. "There's something else, too. Something I found out recently." "We agree on more than I'm entirely comfortable with," Hot Rod haha-just-kidding-but-no-really says. His smile slips crooked as he meets the dubious look head-on. "Feeling's mutual, I'm sure. If you didn't have your head up your aft about your caste and everything, you might even be okay!" Surely Blast Off is warmed by his regard. At this point, Hot Rod just looks resigned to the fact that there is something else. "Of course," he says, and gestures with a lazy roll of his wrist: bring it on, he invites in the crook of his fingers. "What's that?" Blast Off lifts an optic ridge at Hot Rod, but it's possible there's the teeny-tiniest little smirk under that faceplate of his- if only for a moment. The smirk fades by the time the other mech gets to *head up your aft* and the Combaticon looks away again, a little annoyed. "If you weren't.... well, /YOU/... you might be Okay, too." However, he seems not to be so annoyed that he won't at least give Hot Rod a little warning- a little advice. His finger comes to idly trace the rim of his mug once more. "I learned something recently. Something that as a person who values /choice/ you might want to know. Just a little.... head's up, I suppose." He tilts his head slightly. "Are you aware of the Sky Spy network? That is one of the main companies that the Senate uses to spy on us from above- using satellites and drones to keep track of our movements and making sure that people like me cannot EVER actually live up to our function and return to space." Pause. "I... recently came into some information on a new technology they are developing. Apparently they are devloping some new technology- and I'm sure you'll //*love*// this as much as I did- implant hidden spying technology into people's optics! Something, that if you were, say, I don't know, paranoid enough, you might think could surreptitiously be a means to implant spy capabilities into our everyday lives. Technology that might even allow the government to see what WE are seeing... without us ever even knowing they're watching." He lifts his mug and takes a drink. "Of course, I'm /sure/ the senate and the Autobots would deny such a purpose. They're only looking out for our best interests, after all." Why yes, that IS sarcasm. "Thank you." Hot Rod takes it as a compliment that he is so very /him/ that it deserves double-emphasis. When Blast Off gets to the warning, he first nods. "Yeah, I'm familiar with them. One of the reasons I wanted to get nice and familiar with the tunnels when we hit the Institute." His expression settles "What do you mean, without us knowing? Would they need to get a hold of someone first, or is this just like--?" He waves his hands all vaguely and sits back with an expression of intense disquiet. "Primus, it was already bad enough. How far are they there?" Blast Off shakes his head. "I am not exactly sure. I understood some of the data but left it in more technical hands to extract the rest. But they do indeed seem to be moving towards even more insidious means of monitoring and control. It hasn't reached development stage. I don't believe it is anything widespread. ...Yet." He lets out a sour sigh. "But there are all kinds of ways to implant something. Right now they seem to need the Institute. Perhaps tomorrow anytime we get an upgrade or a repair it will have some sort of spy technology." "Well, /I'm/ not getting repaired any time soon. Don't know about you." Looking like a mech with a serious case of the heebie-jeebies, Hot Rod shakes his head. He places his hands flat on the table, but doesn't quite yet stand. "Okay, I better head out of here. Anything else terrible you want to tell me before I go? Senate's secretly figured out how to adjust everyone's recharge slabs so that they download our secrets?" Blast Off lets out an almost bemused-sounding huff (somehow). A Combaticon can never quite be assured he won't need repairs. It just sort of goes with the territory. "I'll... try not to. And if I do, I'll keep it limited to someone I trust." Ok, he doesn't actually trust anyone, really, but...whatever. As Hot Rod prepeares to leave, the shuttleformer looks at him. He debates mentioning something about Blurr. Oh, and come to think of it, he could potentially mention something about Whirl. Y'know, that whole thing where he SHOT Whirl in the HEAD. The guy was threatening him, Ok? Oh, and Blast off was probably also jealous, too. Just a little. He deliberates on these things, deliberates trying to explain... and then shrugs and takes a drink from his mug. "No." If he says anything, Hot Rod will probably just get the wrong idea, and get angry, and ask a lot of questions.... and the shuttle wouldn't know how to answer him anyway. Nor would he expect Hot Rod to understand, because no one ever seems to anyway. Trying to explain usually just gets him in hotter water as it is. Better to just not say anything at all. "That is all." He gives Hot Rod a polite nod, then goes back to his drink. Hot Rod gives Blast Off a brief grin. "That was a long pause," he points out, but he does so with a laugh. He lacks the suspicion that BLAST OFF TRULY DESERVES. Pushing to his feet, he says, "Right. I'm out of here. Thanks for the heads up. Keep your head down." Then he's off, headed back out into Kaon's friendly welcome.